Hope
by Exilo
Summary: It is only for the sake of those without hope, that hope is given to us. One shot, short. One of the few possibly only fics centered on a Prophet. Takes place a month after the third game, before Kingdom Come. Read AND review please.


_Hope_

Was our crime so unforgivable that we deserve this? How quick they forget that their eyes were blinded to the truth, just as we were. For so long, blinded. Now they break bread with those we called heretic. With the Demon who murdered us by the drove. And all the while they pass their blind judgment on those they used to call comrade, friend, brother. They forget how long they let themselves be blinded. How easily they were pushed and pulled by the deceptive words.

The door slides open. I've been sitting here in the dark for so long, that the sudden light from the hallways blinds me. I lift my hand and give my eyes their time to adjust to the sudden brightness, while my ears hear the footsteps. Too light to be Jiralhanae, yet too heavy for Unggoy, Kig-Yar, or my own. That leaves one. The captain had warned me of the breach. And his loud, gruff voice rang through my ears as each wing was taken until I just shut my radio off. He said to flee. To reach one of the pods and run. But I remained here, on my thrown. Not out of bravery. The Jiralhanae are brave perhaps. Or stupid, as they stay behind and fight to the last man. I am not brave. Even if the Sangheili are repelled, what then? Flee and survive another day? There will be more, and I am simply tired of running. At long last, I have accepted our defeat and I look forward to the oblivion of death. I sit here on my throne: a broken, beaten heap of scraps given to me by the Jiralhanae, grateful that I have stayed loyal to them, that I continue to give them trust.

It's odd really. When I had hope for paradise, I feared death, even though I would be carried on the Great Journey when the time came. I moved with an entourage of Sangheili honor guards, and then Jiralhanae. I feared death, even with the promise of paradise. And now? Now my eyes adjust and I see the Sangheili draw his blade. I just watch without fear or hope or hatred. The soft blue glow lights his steps as he moves deeper in the darkness of the room, towards me. I avert my gaze.

"Minister of Hope," he says. "For your crimes against the Sangheili, you shall be executed. If you've anything to say that may stay our blade, say it now."

I want to ask 'Is there no forgiveness for my crimes?' though I know the answer. A month ago this Sangheili would have obeyed my orders and lifted his blade to the humans, I'm sure he had fought the humans, but now he is forgiven. Why have the Forerunners smiled on him, but abandoned me? At this time I need them most? I was always loyal. I always followed their words.

More Sangheili enter the room. Now there's three, then four, then six in total. Each with his own blade to light the way through the darkness. They talk amongst each other, as if I am not here, or I cannot hear. But I hear them just fine.

The Jiralhanae are stronger than they thought. They still hold the ship, and they are fighting with everything they have. And so it would seem it is not my time for execution just yet. It would seem I am more useful alive. That is what I have been reduced to? Something to bargain with? A tool to be used and then cast aside when useless. They finish talking. Four depart, to fight the Jiralhanae crew, while two say behind.

It is these two that I find interesting. Both bear the virgin blue color of minors. And the glint in their eyes. They are frustrated with this job. Angry about it. They want so badly to put me down and claim the honor that my death will bring. But for now, at this very moment, I am safe. But my time draws near. If the Sangheili take the ship, I will be killed. If the Jiralhanae succeed and repel the invaders, my two guards will execute me before they turn and flee.

"What is your name?" I ask aloud. I don't address anyone in particular. Either can answer.

The one with a dent in his helmet and a missing shoulder guard doesn't respond, but the one with only the left half of his chest and shields that flicker and die and recharge in a strange rhyme says, "Wernerk."

"What house do you hail from?" I ask.

He says, "Stratham."

"I am sorry, Minor Wernerk Stratham. I am sorry for all the lies that I have preached, the men I have sent to their death."

"Your fate is sealed," the Sangheili who has not told me his name says.

"Yes, I know. Too late for forgiveness by a few days, for me and mine. But I don't believe I am too late to apologize."

Wernerk gives a slight nod, while the nameless one merely glares. Wernerk is still so young. During the war, he probably spoke out against slaughtering the humans, and questioned why we hunted them. The nameless one has yet to sheathe his blade; in the still dark room it splashes him with a pale, ghastly sheen.

Perhaps I do fear death, or at least still value life. My life, not the lives of these who would so carelessly see me denied redemption. "Please," I say. "If today is my last, one final request. A sweet taste on my lips and in my mouth. There is a bottle of spirit." I rise and hobble over to my desk study. It's not hard to seem weak to the Sangehili. I am. A misplaced touch, a careless hand, would be enough to break me. The nameless Sangheili holds back when he hits me, but still I tumble onto my throne and sit in a dead heap. Such a simple act on his behalf, and yet I will need medical attention soon.

He, the one without a name, is the one who walks to the desk. He's the one who opens the draw I point out, and trips the trap, detonating the explosives inside. He's the one who takes the brunt of the blast, the bits of shrapnel cutting through his shields and armor and digging deep into his flesh.

Wernerk is stunned, but not dead. If he gathers his thoughts and realizes what happens, he will kill me. But he doesn't. He's confused and scared. He hunches over his fallen brother and tries to wake him.

Silent I pull the garrote from my sleeve and approach. It isn't until he first feels the tightening noose around his neck that he starts to struggle. With ease he could overpower me, but he needs a footing and grip. I deny him both. I keep him off balance, yanking him back then onto the ground, and putting a foot at the back of his neck, my other knee on his shoulder to keep my balance and keep him down. My hands burn. The Sangheili snarls and growls and reaches back, but I stay out of his grip.

By and by, he starts to fade. His fist smashes the ground and makes a dent in the ground hull. His fingers scratch and claw and he actually makes gashes on the floor. I arch my back, closing my eyes and ignoring the burning in my hands, the blood sizzling on the energy wire, and I just pull.

And then it's over. His body goes limp, but I hold it a while. My hand is bloodied and shaking. I ball a fist, and release, and let go.

The door opens again. The captain walks in. He's tall for a Jiralhanae, and towers over me. He could break me, but he looks upon me with such admiration. It's strange, but I've long grown used to it. Light blue armor in pieces and bits cling to the pale fur of his hide. He's wounded with plasma burns and coated in purple blood, but alive. "Minster?" he asks.

"I am fine captain."

"You are bleeding."

I was holding the wire too tight. There are gashes over my palms and some of my fingers look as if they are going to fall off, held on only by a bit of skin. "I am fine captain. The Sangheili?"

The captain heaved and took a breath. "Beaten, for now. But not without casualties. We are going to make another jump. Prepare yourself."

I sit down in my throne. The captain hoists Wernerk over his shoulder, but I wave my hand for him to stop. "Was your son taken by the Sangheili?" I ask.

The captain shakes his head, with a bit of relief flickered in his cold, smoky eyes.

"Go be with him."

The captain nods and turns, shuffling out of the room. I am left alone with the bits and pieces of that other Sangheili, and Wernerk. I bend in front of him, to my knees, my dirty and tattered robes soaking some of the blood. I must have opened his throat. There is purple spilling along the floor. "I am so sorry," I say. "I am sorry for the lies that I have preached, the men I have sent to their death, the lives I have taken." I stretch a hand out of the baggy sleeve of my robe and trace over the youth's face, shutting his eyes. "But I am not ready to die yet."


End file.
